Visceral
by Evie1989
Summary: "The dim office light bounces off the golden yellow of her hair, casting soft shadows on her angular features. It's a curious combination, one that leaves you helpless to do anything but stare" Sam/Dylan pre-show ONESHOT


**Greetings! And HAPPY BIRTHDAY BETH. I wanted to write you something and clearly I'm missing Sam and Dylan a great deal, and also apparently my brain didn't fancy any dialogue so prose prose prose. This is set pre-show, pre-whatever horrific tragedy befell Sam and Dylan that turned him to alcohol and ruined their marriage. It may be horrifically out of character but the thought was there. But I digress, yes, happiest of birthdays to you :)**

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The dim office light bounces off the golden yellow of her hair, casting soft shadows on her angular features. It's a curious combination, one that leaves you helpless to do anything but stare. Her beauty is captivating, breathtaking and so many times you've chastised yourself for getting carried away. Like you, she likes to keep her cards close to her chest, but you've found that her eyes often betray her. And you've found that they can pierce through your heart faster than you ever thought possible.

Behind the depths of icy blue, her moods are always prevalent, visible, if of course you know how to look. And you've spent so much time looking, trying to figure out the enigma she presents to the world. Your breath catches as her gaze finds yours, and suddenly you close your eyes, wishing that she were just a little less beautiful because, _damn her_, she's so distracting that you suddenly forget how to form words.

But she speaks for you, shifting closer until there's barely any space between your heated body and hers. The clinical surroundings of your office seem to melt away with her in such close proximity. Suddenly it's just you and her, and of course you've been in your office alone with her before, but it's never felt quite like this. She's never looked at you quite like _that_. The tone of her voice is soft, but it doesn't quite match the playful mischief that dances in her eyes.

She's twenty one and you're her mentor but none of this feels wrong. In fact you struggle to remember a time when anything in your life had ever felt this right. Her words come out in barely a whisper, but your ears, so accustomed now to picking her voice out of a crowded area, hear every word. She doesn't even wait for you to respond, she just picks up the pile of textbooks you left on the desk and turns towards the door, leaving your brain to process the loaded question that had just fallen from lips. _Your place or mine_?

Moments later, and she walks past you, her shoulder delicately brushing yours; deliberately, you're sure of it. She lazily kicks the door open and walks out without even checking that you're following. She doesn't have to, without even realising it you're already walking, your feet falling into her steps. And all of a sudden it's that easy, that simple and you're overwhelmed. Never had you even dared to hope that your affections were anything more than one sided.

You make it into the lift just as the doors are closing and she smirks at you, but the blush that creeps up the sides of her cheeks belies the confidence she had just shown back in your office just a little. One hand reaches up to untie her hair, obviously in an attempt to distract herself from the tension that sits heavily between the two of you, and you turn to her, needing to reassure her somehow. But as she shakes her hair out you're struck with the scent of lavender and jasmine, it's heady and aromatic and addictive and for the second time, though you're sure it won't be the last; you find yourself unable to form any words.

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Her fingers brush against yours as she accepts the glass of wine you're offering and there's no doubting the spark at the touch of her skin against your own. She smiles at you as you join her on the sofa, a wide, open smile that admittedly you've rarely seen in the six months she has been under your tutelage. She shifts just slightly, to set the glass down on the table and as the movement causes her to fall closer to you, you find yourself wondering if she realises that a simple touch lights liquid fire in your blood. If you didn't know better, that shift could have been nothing, it could have been innocent but she grows bolder; tracing delicate patterns up and down your arm and the way her fingers linger a little too long over the pulse point in your wrist leaves no doubt in your mind that she knows exactly what she's doing. You've spent too long wishing for this moment and now you find yourself actually living it you're not exactly sure how to approach it. How to approach her.

She's normally so restrained, so much so that you've heard her referred to as cold by your colleagues on more than one occasion. Her touches are usually brief, professional, reserved for the clinical examination of sick bodies, and so many times you've seen her doubtful to use her hands to soothe or calm a patient in the way her peers have no problem with. But there's nothing reserved about the way her hand continues to dance along your arm, there's nothing cold in the way she holds your gaze as she sits up on her knees and cradles your face in her hands.

Her lips suddenly crash against yours, and you fall, fall so hard and so fast that you're afraid she'll never be able to catch you. But she sighs and her fingers scrabble to hold onto your shirt collar and you know she's falling too. Her lips part and you finally lose yourself in the kiss you've been waiting for for so long. It's fierce but not forceful and you know that in a few moments you'll both be gasping for breath. She tastes like coffee and mint and strawberry lip gloss and your eyes fall shut when she moans into your mouth; the sound reverberating through your jaw and exploding somewhere deep in your chest.

When she breaks the kiss all you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears and you have to remind yourself to take a breath, to try and ground yourself. You feel her smile into your shoulder as you ghost kisses up her neck, up further and further until you find a sweet spot behind her ear that makes her shiver. Your mind is racing almost as fast as your heart. This isn't logical, this isn't rational. This is everything you're not, yet she's everything you've ever wanted. You can feel it deep in your bones, it's a visceral, aching thirst that you know you'll never quite quench.

And then it hits you. Hard. You've just a crossed a line, a big one. And you can never go back. And even if you could, you don't want to. You're quite sure that you never even want to move from this sofa. You're sure you can live off the scent of lavender and jasmine, off the taste of mint and coffee and strawberry lipgloss.

You pull back slightly and stare into her eyes, those same icy blue eyes that captivated you from the moment she first introduced herself. You search for any sign of regret, of remorse on her face and you find yourself both relieved and emboldened when you see neither. So you pull her closer, lose yourself in her kisses once again. Because yes this is reckless and yes it's illogical but you've never been more sure of anything in your life.

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_Visceral (adj.)_

_**1. **characterised by or proceeding from instinct rather than intellect: a visceral reaction.  
_

_**2. **characterised by or dealing with coarse or base emotions; earthy._

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**Thanks for reading :)**


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